


In Pottery Class

by DarkGreenPoop



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Bottom Original Percival Graves, Gellert Grindelwald Being Creepy, Graves Has Hobbies, Graves' Hobbies Include Pottery, Implied Credence Barebone/Original Percival Graves, Implied Tina Goldstein/Original Percival Graves, Jealousy, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Protective Original Percival Graves, Sassy Original Percival Graves
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-04-08
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:18:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,499
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkGreenPoop/pseuds/DarkGreenPoop
Summary: “We should go see the Eiffel Tower,” Grindelwald muses. His hand is on Graves’ ass and Graves wonders whether this could be the most fucked up thing to happen to him since he tried peyote.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into 中文 available: [陶艺课](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10690548) by [annebaby](https://archiveofourown.org/users/annebaby/pseuds/annebaby)



> See end for warnings.  
> Reader discretion is advised.

Graves likes to attend No-Maj pottery class. 

It’s a charming vice, he tells himself. The Director of Magical Security, embroiled in the trenches of No-Maj living via the sinister conduit of pottery. 

And thus, he exits work onto a gray New York street at 7:00pm on a Thursday, and breathes in deep. He strides over to an alley. He apparates into another alley. He walks to a flat little shop in the middle of Queens, on Roosevelt Avenue in Flushing. The shop is painted pink and has white roofing. 

With a tinkling of bells, he enters. Two rows of adult students glance up at him, and most of them smile. 

“Percy!” the instructor beams, hair a frizzy red. She approaches him from the side, and Graves obligingly turns and attempts a smile. “How nice of you to join us.” 

“Yes, thank you Martha,” Graves replies. “I want to make an animal today.” 

“We’re doing vases,” Martha says. “But you’re quite the professional at this, whatever you’d like Percy. Why don’t you set up next to Donny, he’s new and could use some mentorship.”

Graves sees a rather nondescript man waving at the back, brown-haired and bespectacled and dressed in a pinstriped suit. Graves walks over to him and holds out a hand to shake, which Donny gives two hard pumps. 

“What do you do for a living, Perce?” Donny asks, once Graves has settled down in an adjacent chair. “You seem like a lawyer type.” 

“I’m a trust fund baby,” Graves says. “I don’t work and I live off of my dead parents.” 

“I’m a doctor,” Donny replies. “A pediatrician.” 

“That’s cute.” Graves pinches himself a helping of clay. He squints at it. “What do you think about a hippopotamus?” 

“Fine,” Donny says. The _splat_ of clay residue on his shirt has Graves glancing at him, raising an eyebrow. “Ah, shit!” 

“That’s not how you do things, Donny,” Graves sighs. He takes the man’s rather broad hands in his own and guides them around the clay. 

\--

Grindelwald smiles down at him, mismatched eyes twinkling. Graves blinks through the blood running into his left eye, clenching his hands uselessly at bindings. He thinks he’s in his basement, but he’s not really sure. Everything seems rather red at the moment.

“Nice house you have, _Perce_ ,” Grindelwald drawls. Graves blinks in quick succession, three more times. 

“Fuck me with a two-pronged cactus,” Graves groans. “Donny? You? Shit.”

“You were ever so helpful the last few weeks,” Grindelwald continues, sharp grin becoming a bit more wicked at the edges. “I wonder if you can continue to cooperate.” 

“You’ll have to threaten some family’s life first, but they’re already dead,” Graves says. “And if I had a dog, I’d assume you’ve already eaten him.” 

Grindelwald continues to smile down at him. “Tell me, director. How does one in your position… one so devoted to the separation of muggles and magic, deign to bring a muggle into your own home?” 

Graves squints and considers feeling humiliation. He finds he doesn’t currently have the emotional depth. “Horniness.” 

\--

“That’s it Donny,” Graves mutters, feeling the warmth of Donny’s rough-skinned hands. “There you go.” He withdraws slowly, and looks over to see Donny grinning at him. Graves decides that rather than being nondescript, Donny has quite a high pair of cheekbones and a sort-of penetrating gaze.

Graves nods to himself and returns to his hippopotamus. 

\--

In the two weeks since the start of his captivity, Graves has discovered that Grindelwald likes to punch him.

Graves assumes it’s because of the job. He did it for too many years to count, and it made him want to punch people too. Granted, he turned to pottery instead. 

“How does it feel, Director,” Grindelwald snarls, panting and still wearing Graves’ face. “To have so little power, when you’ve known it for so long? How does it feel to reach for magic you don’t have?” 

Graves stares at his wine rack. “I dunno, Grindelwald. Maybe I’d have the presence of mind to think about it if you stopped punching me.” 

Grindelwald kicks him in the stomach. Graves chokes and curls in on himself, knees tucked to his chest. 

“You’re pathetic,” Grindelwald grinds out amid Graves’ wheezing. “A powerful wizard like you, trapped in his own basement. Vulnerable. Useless. I could _rape_ you and all you’d be able to do is wisecrack.” 

“Humor is a mature defense mechanism,” Graves posits breathlessly. “Better than starting a fascist cult.”

Grindelwald grabs Graves by the shoulders, hauling him bodily up against him. Graves affects his best uncaring expression, pursing his mouth and eyeing the drywall. Grindelwald’s lips brush against his right ear.

“You’d like that, wouldn’t you Graves?” Grindelwald whispers, one hand sliding down Graves’ torso. “If I fucked you in your basement, used you like a cheap whore?” 

“Ooh baby, this one’s a sweet-talker,” Graves replies, wishing he could examine his nonexistent manicure. Too bad about the bound hands. 

Grindelwald suddenly conjures a mattress in the center of the room, stark white against gray concrete. Graves feels the prickling of sweat at his temple, and tells himself it’s only because of the room temperature. 

“I have herpes,” Graves confides. “I have anal herpes. And syphilis.” He squeezes his eyes shut as Grindelwald drags him across the floor. “And also, I can get pregnant. It’s an awful affliction. All the children I make are two-headed basilisks.”

“Save it Percival,” Grindelwald growls.

“My pockets are fucking deep, haven’t you taken a look at the trust fund? For God’s sake man, hire a prostitute. I haven’t even ever taken it up the ass before, it’ll be the worst time you’ve ever had.” 

“That’s for me to decide.” Grindelwald throws Graves ass-first against the mattress, and rips at his shirt buttons.

Percival groans, turning to mournfully eye the scattered and detached buttons. “Do you have to take my shirt off to fuck? Just get to the point, won’t you?” 

Grindelwald pauses. “What?” 

Graves glances pointedly at his own unveiled chest, one nipple peeking out past his shredded cravat. 

Grindelwald sighs, running a hand down his face. “How in the hell do you talk this much? I’ve watched you for weeks before your capture, and I never thought you would be this exasperating.” 

“Silence is part of the mystique,” Graves says. “To make the underlings fear me. Have you seen Goldstein’s-” 

Grindelwald slaps him across the face. Graves can’t claim to be surprised.

“The mood’s gone,” Grindelwald informs him. 

Graves raises an eyebrow. 

Grindelwald disapparates.

\--

Donny comes to quite a few pottery classes, Graves notes. He smiles at Graves whenever Graves walks into the room. Well. Everyone in the class does tend to smile, but Graves takes note of Donny. 

Today, Sarah decides to talk to him. Sarah sits on his other side, the side that Donny doesn’t occupy. 

“Percy, and pardon me being so forward,” Sarah says, thin wrists covered in gray clay and blonde hair in gleaming curls. “What’s a beautiful man like you doing in a pottery class every day? Without the wife?” 

“Thanks for asking Sarah,” Graves grunts. “No wife.” 

“Why not?” Sarah weaves a fine pattern into the clay with a brush. “You seem so eligible.”

Graves pokes at the chubby zebra he’s decided on today, still missing a head. “Eligible? I’m 38 years old and my only hobby is pottery, Sarah. Let’s not jump to conclusions.” Sarah giggles and Graves smiles at her--or tries to. Only one side of his mouth ticks upward.

\--

Grindelwald stops visiting him. Graves gets gruel spontaneously appearing once a day, and his solitude goes on for thirty days. 

He wonders why Grindelwald doesn’t once bother with extracting any memories, and how the man keeps up his disguise. Graves thinks of whether he should attempt to entertain the man through his bouts of Cruciatus and punching, so the git doesn’t leave him stewing in his filth alone. He thanks the heavens for the bathroom he’d had installed in the basement.

“Fucking turd, the man is,” Graves muses, squatting over the toilet. He dreads the task of wiping handless.

\-- 

Graves really, really does not want to fire Goldstein. She’s not a fucking moron for starters, and has that gut instinct that great aurors are made of. He glares at the very white resignation letter resting on his wood desk.

“Goldstein-”

“I know sir,” Goldstein interrupts. “I had to. She was… abusing him. Beating him. I couldn’t let it happen, wizard or not.” 

“Gold-”

“And I’ll be fine. There’s an opening at that bar down the street, the one I know you like-”

“Goldst-”

“Bye, sir.” Goldstein smiles a watery smile, standing with her hands tucked against her stomach. Graves can see the rest of the department through the open door behind her, unusually diligent at work. “You were truly the best mentor a person could ask for. I can’t thank you enough.” 

“Look Ms. Porpentina Goldstein,” Graves continues, firm. “You’re a talented young person. Quid pro quo. I teach you, you help me solve cases. You have nothing to be grateful for.” 

Goldstein’s eyes turn even more watery. 

“Especially since I’m putting you, _temporarily_ , in the Wand Permits department. _To reflect_. Six month probationary period before I’ll reinstate you.” 

Goldstein gasps. She hugs him, and Graves’ stomach warms in relief.

\--

Grindelwald finally returns one day, popping into existence while Graves has his face in a bowl of gruel. Graves primly straightens, liquid dripping down his chin.

“Percival,” Grindelwald croons, swooping to crouch down before him. Graves stares at Grindelwald’s eyes, thinking about heterochromia and an angry stray cat he’d seen with the same gaze. 

“You’ll never guess what happened today. Ms. Goldstein was caught at another one of those muggle gatherings-”

“Don’t you hurt her,” Graves snarls, the beginnings of a bone-hurting chill starting at his spine. “Don’t you fucking-”

“Probation. Really, what were you thinking? Well. She almost finished her six months, but now I rather think her stay in Wand Permits shall be _indefinite_.” 

Graves hides the reassurance that settles in him, and Grindelwald grabs his chin. 

“What will you give me?” Grindelwald asks. The lines in his face soften. Graves doesn’t try to understand. 

“Anything,” Graves admits. He thinks about the helpless thrashing he’s done at his bindings, the emptiness where his magic should be, the solid concrete where a door should be. He thinks about how fucking unlikely it is that he’ll get out of here alive, and he nuzzles against Grindelwald’s palm. 

“Percy,” Grindelwald whispers, hand scratching at Graves’ hair. Graves shuts his eyes.

When they apparate to his bedroom, Graves meets Grindelwald’s kiss eagerly, feeling teeth against his bottom lip. Grindelwald shoves him down to the bed.

“Did Goldstein ever get to see you like this?” Grindelwald asks, mouthing at his neck. “Your favorite pet auror-”

Ah, so there it is. 

“Could you do a quick scourgify for me?” Graves asks, suddenly very tired. “I haven’t had a bath since you chained me up in my basement. You fuck.” 

\--

Donny asks Graves a lot of questions. If he were an underling, Graves would tell him to stuff it and throw some paperwork at him to make him go away. 

As it stands, Graves sees a young man with a lot of daddy issues. Graves has got salt and pepper hair, doesn’t give fucks for anything, and is the superior pottery student. Donny’s got hero worship written all over his face. 

Graves hasn’t had sex for a very long time, so he doesn’t really mind.

\-- 

“Ah fuck, you’re doing it all wrong!” Graves shouts, turning around to hiss at the fingers in his ass. Grindelwald smacks him on a buttock. Graves lays his head back down, legs spread and behind rather embarrassingly raised to the air for Grindelwald to access.

“Can you close your mouth for once, Percival?” Grindelwald asks, tone noticeably strained. Graves can hear him touching himself behind him, enjoying his discomfort. Sicko.

“My ass canal is not a fucking Chinese finger trap, _Gellert_ , it’s not gonna get better the more you poke at it.” 

Grindelwald ignores him. “You’re mine, _completely_ , Percival. No one’s ever going to find you. When I finish wearing your face, I’ll take you with me. I’m the only one you’re ever going to see for the rest of your life. They’ll assume you’re dead. You’ll be my pretty little wife, forever-” 

_Lie back and think of MACUSA, lie back and think of MACUSA,_ Graves urges to himself, convinced that Grindelwald is completely off his rocker. What would his dear old ma think of him if she saw him now? She probably wouldn’t change her mind about the “hellfire and brimstone” and “disgusting faggotry, worthy of ten disownings” and whatever else she’d spit at him, the last time he’d seen her. Ah well. 

By the time Grindelwald finally lines his penis up at its intended destination, Graves’ mind has drifted a bit off. Grindelwald has obviously never done this before, and it’s apparent to Graves that he’s a bit of a closeted case who really needs an outlet. Graves feels a dull sting, before Grindelwald pushes in in earnest. 

“Ughhhhhh, mother _fucker_ ,” Graves groans, gasping at the burning sensation searing its way up his spine. Grindelwald eases in steadily, not missing a beat, as Graves twists in the sheets and whimpers. He thinks that it must be ages, hours, before Grindelwald stops, buried to the hilt inside of Graves. He blinks away tears he didn’t realize had formed.

Hot hands come to pet his back, and Graves twitches in irritated agony. “Don’t move,” Graves croaks. “I told you you fucked it all up, you dafty.” The hands stop petting at his back. “Didn’t expect you to have a dick the size of the fucking Eiffel Tower, I fucking hate you, you _fuck_ -” 

Grindelwald pulls out, and Graves’ mouth opens on a wordless whine. When Grindelwald comes surging back, Graves finds himself crying without restraint. He feels Grindelwald’s dick all across his spine, spreading fire throughout his limbs. He’s felt the Cruciatus curse, felt his bones break, but this scorches him from the inside, and feels as if it reaches his heart and soul. 

“It hurts, oh it fucking hurts,” Graves sobs, burying his face in the bed. “I wasn’t ever meant to bottom, you fucker, we’re never doing this again, fuck you fu-”

Grindelwald’s arms come around him, hugging him, hips pistoning endlessly. Graves thrashes, his arms pulling at their bindings. He sees red a couple of times, sees black, comes back to seeing red, and is Goldstein worth it, is she really because he can’t see the point of all this anymore-

Grindelwald bites him on the shoulder, and it’s another point of pain to focus on, sharp edges and wet tongue trapping him. Graves heaves; forgets to breathe. 

“Sorry,” Grindelwald moans, and it’s fucking weird to hear him apologize, and then warmth seeps down Graves’ thighs and fills all the stinging cracks inside of him. He exhales.

\-- 

“We have to talk about Grindelwald,” Picquery states, giving Percival the stink-eye. He calls it her stink-eye. He’s not sure what the other department heads call it, but they all retreat into their clothing like half-formed turtles in its presence.

“We need to talk about him, yes,” Graves parrots. “I guess he’s coming to the U.S.” 

“We need to be ready. Contain him.” 

“What kind of assault would he plan? He could have moles in MACUSA as we speak.”

\--

Grindelwald laughs. “It’s not like you’ve just given birth, Percy. Really, cheer up won’t you?” 

“Twin-headed basilisks, sounds about right, yeah,” Graves grumbles. He refuses to move. Grindelwald’s hands come to rest on him, light and petting.

“You were beautiful,” Grindelwald states. 

Well, there it is, Graves thinks. There it fucking is. He could claim to be disturbed, but he all but encouraged it, didn’t he? 

“We should go see the Eiffel Tower,” Grindelwald continues. His hand is on Graves’ ass and Graves wonders whether this could be the most fucked up thing to happen to him since he tried peyote.

\--

“Donny, you need to fucking get a grip,” Graves laughs, clay splattering on his suit. 

“You use that word a lot, don’t you Perce?” Donny asks, grin knife-sharp at the edges. “Fucking?”

\--

“Please,” Graves moans. Grindelwald bends down to kiss him, and Graves turns to lend him his neck instead. 

“Who’s bad at sex now?” Grindelwald growls, thrusting in a painfully slow rhythm. 

“You,” Graves huffs, crossing his ankles at Grindelwald’s back. He exhales on a rather breathy whimper, and shivers in indignation when Grindelwald chuckles.

\--

“We’ve got someone in on his operations, but nowhere near close enough to the top.”

“Madame President, he treats his recruits like pawns, each and every one. The only way we’re getting to the top is if someone beds the bastard.”

“Crude, Graves. You’ll have to find someone able to even see Grindelwald in the first place.”

Graves makes assenting noises for the rest of the meeting with Picquery: rehashing speculations, sighing through dead-ends. By the time he makes it to his paperwork and does some extra hand-holding with the baby aurors, he _feels_ the bags forming, heavy, under his eyes.

Goldstein enters. 

“No, Goldstein.”

Goldstein turns to exit--pauses--and Graves lets out a deep breath.

“Out with it, Goldstein.”

“It’s the boy,” Goldstein says, turning quickly back around. “She’s hurting him.”

“Call No-Maj services.”

“He’s an adult.”

“More fool him.”

“Sir!”

“Goddammit, Goldstein,” Graves states. “Do I look like I have time to coddle adult No-Majs?”

Goldstein glances at his immaculately pressed shirt and styled hair. She doesn’t respond. Damn her. 

\--

“Did you fuck the boy?” Grindelwald asks one day, immediately upon apparating into the basement. Graves slowly lifts his face from a bowl of--really, so generous of Grindelwald--shepherd’s pie. He stares at his own face looking back at him, eyebrows and mouth relaxed. 

“You’re going to have to be more specific.” 

When the kick comes, Graves is truly surprised. His head cracks against the floor, and while his ears are still ringing, Grindelwald drags him up by the collar. 

“Disgusting,” Grindelwald snarls, nose barely a centimeter from Graves’ own. Graves ponders the strangeness of staring at his own brown eyes glinting with malice, accusatory. 

“You’re one to-”

Grindelwald punches him in the gut, and Graves stops breathing, forehead pressing against Grindelwald’s shoulder as he tries to protect his soft midsection. Grindelwald inhales heavily. 

“I should unman you,” Grindelwald hisses out, and Graves shudders. His thighs clench closer together, unbidden. “Given your filthy nature.” 

_Mercy Lewis_ , Graves thinks, mouth agape and throat petrified. He remembers the witch MACUSA had found, neck broken in her own apartment, with serrated flesh in certain places that he drank himself to oblivion to forget. He thinks of the murderer who’d turned himself in only a week later, thinks of his red-rimmed eyes and unkempt hair and a strange insistence that he had loved her.

 _I’m not that_ , Graves frantically tells himself, as Grindelwald grabs him by the root of his hair to run a cold gaze over Percival’s muted expression. _I am the Director of Magical Security_ , Graves screams in his head, when Grindelwald catches him in the ribs with his foot, and Graves coughs out spit laced with the taste of iron. He falls to his side, staring at Grindelwald’s ankles and the wine rack behind them and the inescapable concrete walls. 

“”M sorry,” Graves tries. “Won’t.” He heaves, the effort of speaking tearing a searing hurt into his chest. 

Grindelwald’s rough hand--a perfect replica of Graves’ own--rests against Graves’ purpling cheek. He squeezes his eyes shut. 

Grindelwald pauses. Graves assumes he is staring at him, contemplating what to do next. His skin prickles--anticipation, unease. 

“Look at me,” Grindelwald says. Graves immediately complies, giving Grindelwald his complete wide-eyed attention. Grindelwald’s mouth is lax, eyes downcast: he looks regretful. Graves shivers. 

“Percival,” Grindelwald continues. He frowns, as if unsure of himself. Graves tries not to blink, keeping still. Grindelwald’s fingers begin to stroke at Graves’ temple. 

“Percival,” Grindelwald tries again, frustration seeping into his furrowed brow. Graves wants to cry, wants to put oceans between him and this man. Instead he keeps each feature on his face unmoving and watches. 

“I… apologize,” Grindelwald grits out, hand clenching in Graves’ hair. “I lose myself. Because I love you.” 

He looks angry. Graves wants to shout that he didn’t ask for this confession, that he would have lived--or died, to be realistic--fine without it, and that Grindelwald has no right to look as if Graves had forced him to this point. Graves wants to become a child again, when his mother who had disowned him looked at him with pride and gave him approval rather than this violent, unwanted notion of love. 

“Thank you,” Graves croaks. He swallows and doesn’t look away. 

The first time in his life that Percival hears “I love you,” he’s covered in purpling bruises. 

\--

**Author's Note:**

> Warnings: noncon/dubcon, painful sex, slut shaming, violence, crude language, misinformed descriptions of pottery class
> 
> My headcanon is that Graves is so burnt out that he does reckless things and faces captivity with an appropriate but not excessive amount of resistance. Also he's bitter, sarcastic, and doesn't care
> 
> Basically this whole fic is Grindelwald getting jealous and being ridiculous (in steadily more terrible ways) and Graves wanting to retire


End file.
